Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 522 I have principles, I shouldn't suffer this humiliation!

George Charpentier's smile slowly faded: "Leon, I've thought about what you said carefully."

Lionel didn't speak, he just looked at him.

Charpentier put down his cup and spread his hands: "One hundred thousand francs! That's no small sum. I lost eighty thousand francs on the Panama Canal Bonds last year."

Although I didn't lose as much as I did in this year's 'pension crisis,' it was still roughly 30,000 francs.

Lionel nodded. "I know all that. George, you haven't had much luck these past two years."

Charpentier sighed: "I only have 40,000 francs in cash at hand right now. The rest is tied up in the printing press, inventory, and advances to authors."

"Pirates of the Caribbean is doing well at the box office, but we haven't fully recouped our investment yet, and advertisers won't receive their payments until at least the next release."

He paused, then looked at Lionel: "And you're right, this is a big investment with a long payback period; it's not a business where you can see a return on your investment in one or two years."

"Modern Life," bookstores, printing presses, and this 'series of picture books' you've created... everything is a money pit."

Lionel nodded again, his expression unchanged.

Georges Charpentier, fearing that Lionel would misunderstand, said in a more sincere tone, "Léon, it's not that I don't trust your judgment."

In the past few years, which of the things you've identified as promising hasn't come to fruition? You always seem to see things that others can't. But this time... this time it's too risky.

It's a completely new thing; you have to figure it out yourself from start to finish. Will the market accept it? Will Parisians buy into it?

Even if I accept it, how long will it take to break even? Three years? Five years? I don't know.

Lionel listened quietly to him finish, then asked, "So you've decided not to vote?"

George Charpentier did not answer immediately.

He stood up, paced around the room twice, and finally hardened his heart: "At least not now. I have to pave the way for 'series picture books' first."

Once the cash flow improves, maybe next year, or the year after…

Before he could finish speaking, Lionel stood up and said, "I understand."

Georges Charpentier turned around, his voice full of apology: "Leon, please don't blame me. It's not that I didn't want to support you, it's just that..."

Lionel interrupted him, smiling. "I understand. Business is business, and you have your difficulties."

He picked up his hat and put it on: "That's settled then. I'm going back now."

George Charpentier opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he just nodded: "Okay. Let's have dinner together another day!"

"Okay, some other time."

Lionel pushed open the door and went out.

George Charpentier stood at the window, looking down at the street below, and soon Lionel's figure appeared on the sidewalk.

He didn't call for a carriage, but just walked east along the road at a leisurely pace, as if he were taking a stroll.

George Charpentier watched for a long time until the figure disappeared around the street corner before sitting back on the sofa, picking up his coffee and taking a sip.

So bitter!

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The streets of Saint-Honoré were bustling in the afternoon.

Horse-drawn carriages came and went, ladies held parasols, gentlemen wore top hats, and shop windows were polished to a shine.

This is one of the most prestigious neighborhoods in Paris; the air itself smells of money.

Young Emmanuel Poiret emerged from a paint shop, carrying his easel.

He was twenty-four years old, not very tall, thin, with neat short brown hair and a well-trimmed mustache, and wearing a clean coat.

Among the thousands of painters in Paris, he was considered to be doing quite well—he had work, food, and could afford a studio with a north-facing window.

But he wanted more than that.

He walked east along the sidewalk, still thinking about the new watercolors he had seen at the paint shop.

The color is really nice, but the price is really expensive; one tube costs as much as two days' worth of food.

Just then, he saw a man standing by a lamppost ahead, holding a small booklet and reading it intently.

Emmanuel subconsciously slowed his pace; the man was watching "Pirates of the Caribbean."

He recognized it at a glance; the cover was drawn by him—Jacques Sparrow stood on the mast of a wrecked ship, the sea breeze blowing his hair and sash behind him.

The printing effect is good. Although only a simple color matching technique was used, the colors did not go astray.

Then he saw a woman sitting under the awning of a roadside cafe, with the same booklet spread out in front of her.

She read very slowly, occasionally flipping back to take another look.

Further on, two young students walked side by side. One of them was gesturing excitedly, while the other nodded repeatedly, also holding the booklet in his hand.

In just a short while, he saw at least 10 people holding copies of "Pirates of the Caribbean".

Some people walked around looking at the books, some sat on benches engrossed in reading, and some drank coffee while turning the pages in cafes.

He was all too familiar with the expressions on these people's faces.

That's the expression of someone captivated by a story. It's the expression of forgetting where you are, forgetting time, and falling into another world.

He has painted so many pictures and appeared in so many newspapers, but he has never seen so many people at the same time, in the same city, immersed in what he helped create.

A strong impulse surged up.

He wanted to rush over, grab the man who was most engrossed in the book, point to the cover and say, "This is my drawing! I drew every single line myself!"

I spent three nights figuring out that nonchalant expression on Jacques Sparrow's face!

He wanted to tell the woman in the café: "Turn to page seventeen, in the bottom left corner, the pose of Jacques swinging across the zipline—I revised it six times! Just for that one moment of dynamism!"

He wanted to tell the two students, "You know what? This way of storytelling is completely new! Nobody has ever done this before!"

Break time into frames, cut actions into segments, and let the visuals speak for themselves!

But he did nothing; he just stood there, filled with frustration.

Because the booklet's "artist's signature" section does not include "Emmanuel Poiret," but only "Carran Dache."

A name no one recognized, but it was precisely because of his insistence that he adopted this "pen name"—

He feared that this novel form of painting would be criticized by academic pedants like Impressionism. He was still young, and still had dreams...

Emmanuel recalled that two months earlier, on a similar afternoon, he had met that man through the introduction of Mr. Paul Pigut, the editor of Le Petit Parish.

The great writer Lionel Sorel!

Emmanuel was visibly excited, thinking the other man wanted him to illustrate his work—until Lionel Sorel handed him a stack of sketches.

Emmanuel took the paper, turned to the first page, and then he almost lost control of his expression.

What is that? A round head, a stick body, and matchstick limbs.

The figures lack proportion and structure, the lines are crooked and twisted, and the background is sloppy like a child's crayon drawing.

This level is even worse than a child who has only taken two art lessons!

He couldn't help but sneer inwardly. Another self-important amateur wasting the painter's time with graffiti.

He'd seen plenty of people like that—someone with a bit of fame thinks they know everything, even wanting to interfere with painting.

Emmanuel thought to himself, "I am a painter of integrity, and I should not suffer such humiliation!"

Then he prepared to push the paper back, say a few polite words, and leave.

But just as he was about to speak, his gaze stopped, not on a particular "painting," but between several sheets of paper.

He subconsciously placed the three sheets of paper side by side on the table—

The first picture shows a little person with a round head standing on a diagonal line.

In the second image, the figure leans forward with its feet off the diagonal line.

In the third picture, the little figure lands on another horizontal line, crouching down.

Emmanuel stared at the three pieces of paper for a long time.

He suddenly realized something: these scribbled lines were not "drawing," but "recording actions."

He scrambled the papers and rearranged them—but something felt off.

Let's put them back in the original order—that's right, that's it.

The little figure jumped down from the horizontal bar, landed, and stood firm—three moments, one complete movement.

Emmanuel looked up at Lionel, his eyes filled with shock.

Lionel was looking at him, his face expressionless, as if waiting for his reaction.

Emmanuel could hardly contain his excitement: "This is...you want me to paint this?"

Lionel nodded: "Yes, and not entirely, it's just a sketch, or a 'script.' But that's the feeling I want you to draw—"

Break down the actions, cut them into individual moments, and arrange them in sequence, allowing the reader to follow the visuals as if watching a play on paper.

Emmanuel looked down at the "paintings" again.

This time, he no longer looked at the quality of the lines, but at the structure.

How do the little people evade capture, utilize the terrain, and move from one location to another?

The background can be almost omitted, but the sense of space naturally emerges through the posture and direction of the characters.

What caught his attention even more was the boundary of the image.

Some actions "overflow" the lines—a leg extends beyond the frame, half the body juts out over the edge. The reader's gaze is drawn, involuntarily turning to the next page.

This is not an illustration; illustrations serve the text and supplement it.

This is not a satirical cartoon. A satirical cartoon is a single-theme cartoon that stands alone.

This is something entirely new—the images themselves are the language, and the sequence itself is the narrative.

Emmanuel felt a tingling sensation on his back and scalp, but it wasn't fear; it was excitement, the kind of excitement one feels when discovering a new continent.

He turned a few more pages and came across the section about Jacques Sparrow escaping from the naval port.

The scribbles depict a tiny figure weaving through various obstacles, outmaneuvering the pursuers. Although poorly drawn, it possesses a strong sense of rhythm.

Where should the speed be fast, where should the speed be slow, where should the close-up be, and where should the wide shot be?

This man named Lionel could not draw at all; but he could "see," break down the actions he saw, and then arrange the moments of those breakdowns.

Emmanuel put down the paper and took a deep breath: "I understand. You want me to turn these 'schemes' into real paintings."

Lionel nodded: "Yes. Maintain this rhythm, keep the movements fluid, keep the visuals dynamic, and make sure the reader's eyes can follow along."

Emmanuel then asked, "What about the story? What about the words?"

Lionel picked up his pen and casually drew a bubble with pointed ends above the little figure's head...

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　Karan Dache, pen name Emmanuel Boiret, was born on November 6, 1858. He was born in Moscow and died in Paris on February 25, 1909. He was a French cartoonist and cartoonist. Karan Dache's true uniqueness lies not in the beauty of his lines, but in his depiction of "the continuity of action." In the 19th century, most illustrators drew "a frozen scene." Karan Dache, however, drew "the same person in a continuous state at different times."

　　
　
(End of this chapter)